


The Storm that Brews Between Us

by puppydeanandjen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Guilty Sam Winchester, M/M, Michael!Dean, Post-Season/Series 13, Season/Series 13 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-16 08:05:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14807499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puppydeanandjen/pseuds/puppydeanandjen
Summary: Dean’s been taken by Michael and Sam struggles to find a solution to get him back.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VesselOfLucifer (FayTheGay)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayTheGay/gifts).



> So Fay gave me this idea for a fic and I couldn't stop thinking about it. It's a bit different from my other fics in terms of style. This came out late because I got addicted to SM Superstar. :P
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated! I hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> Edit: Most mistakes have been edited

White Noise.

 

That’s all that rings in Sam’s ears, mind bleeding in words, until he collapses? (He can’t even tell where he is anymore It’s all blank. Dark.) Then it’s all blissful peace; even though, every inch of his body is being pelted by jagged edges.

 

But he doesn’t deserve this comfort- his job isn’t finished yet-, so his eye flutter open (since when were they closed?), finding himself buried in piles of pages that he’s read thousands of the times, each sentence, each letter ingrained in his memory. The squiggly lines have been burned into his eyes so vividly that he could probably recall the exact word, the exact page and book it’s in from the five hundred books that lie atop, but that doesn’t matter. Because none of this dumb shit could move him one step closer to achieving his goal.  

 

Saving Dean. Saving his brother from the angelic monster that whisked him away.  

 

Sam's already torn this place apart, searching for answers that he doesn’t even believe are held here. The choices that he has grow narrower by each sentence; all other options pointless now.

 

_He knows what he’ll have to resort too._

 

There’s still time- although, days pass like hours and the time limit shortens- and he hopes to find an alternative to this problem. A way that’ll he pave with his own bare hands, but if he has to then he’ll do it. He won’t give up, not until Dean’s back, and he’s prepared to die for this cause.

 

And it seems as if death has arrived early with the extreme dizziness and fatigue that washes over him, forcing his body to remain stagnant when he could’ve been reading through the next set of sheets. He’s so caught up in these thoughts of what he should be doing that he doesn’t even recognize the figures towering over him. They seem awfully familiar, through diluted, hazy eyes that haven’t seen straight in the last few days.

 

He believes that he should say something, but his lips are chapped and his throat is hoarse. Sam’s lips part as the darkness invades his vision.

 

\--

 

Hushed whispers glide over Sam’s lethargic form- it’s the first human noises that he’s heard all week- while he slowly wakes, becoming aware of his surroundings. The familiar, soft plush of his mattress rest beneath him, smooth against his skin. But it’s not right; this whole situation isn’t right.

 

Heavy eyelids peel themselves open, glassy eyes viewing the beige tones of what seems to be the ceiling. Rising, he’s hit with a blaring headache. With his hand resting against his head, he peers over to the open door that emits broken words which don’t register in his brain.

 

And while the words become clearer, his memories trickle back.

 

Searching. He’s supposed to be searching right now. Sam must’ve passed out. Well, after weeks? of refusing sleep with only coffee and pills as sustenance, it seems to be the most probable cause.

 

Grabbing at his smartphone on the bedside table- it’s still plugged in since that dreaded day as he hasn’t been bothered to use it because Sam hasn’t left the bunker after that particular incident. (Dean used to become antsy if he’d stay here as long as Sam had; the need to hunt something would pulse through his arteries. Plus Baby had to “go out for a spin” consistently so that she won’t break down due to the oil that ignites her. But that was the past and, now, he wasn’t very sure if that’s what Dean wanted at all anymore. Retirement. Dean had talked about retirement. It’s not the first time that his brother asked for that- each of those suggestions evaporating like smoke only a couple days later-, but the way this sense of contentment has been expressed through tired, forest green eyes just made it seem concrete. Dean’s certain now and Sam finds himself yearning to share that with him.)

 

A blue glow stings against dry eyes that have just seen sleep, but he’s able to read the numbers that blare on it.

 

A week. It’s been a week. A week since he had last seen the sunshine beam downward (The glistening sweat that would glimmer, upon Dean’s body, brighter under that rays that bounce of it, tinging the auburn freckles in gold.) and the chirping of birds that cascade across the early morning sky (Noise that startles his peaceful slumber, but it allows him the pleasure of observing the curves of Dean’s lithe, bare body- his brother only slept in his underwear as it was, as he put it, “more comfortable that way”- while he burrows his face more into his pillow, hoping that it would drown out the sounds.) and the sunset that would provide warmth in hues of reds, oranges, and yellows (Eyes watch the sun without a single sound in sight while they sit next to each other, still and calm. Fingers intertwined atop the sleek metal of the Impala that’s parked to the side of the road since they were still miles away from their destination.)

 

Moments flood him an ocean of nostalgia. Yet, it’s something that he could never have again. Not now, at least, with Dean being hijacked by some twisted angel whose motives are still unknown, forcibly separating them. And the distance becomes more unbearable by the second.

 

_There’s no other way._

 

Sam’s certain now; there’s no time left and he doesn’t want to dawdle any longer.

 

The familiar shape of his mother and second father (Although, this one only carries his face; years of built relations, trust, don’t exist in this version) peeks through the wide opened doors. Worry fills their eyes, but their both speechless; neither of them seem to be ready to reprimand him, but can’t bring themselves to speak. It’s easier that way, Sam thinks as he initiates his idea with the words

 

“So I have plan”

 

\--

 

They call him crazy, but he’s already expected that.

 

It’s absurd with a large portion of suicidal, but _what other choice do they have._

 

“There’s gotta be another way, Sam,” his mother tells him, seating near the edge of the bed with comforting rubs on his back, coaxing him out of this scheme that has a high probability of failure. Fear is evident in her eyes, scared of losing her youngest son for the second time to a result more gruesome than death.

 

“There isn’t one!” he replies, more exasperated than he meant; Mary recoils slightly and the guilt pumps inside of him, but the lack of sleep pounds against his skull and it’s quickly replaced by irritation. “I’ve been searching this entire time, but there isn’t anything else we can do.”

 

Sam kicks at the blankets that cover him, swinging himself off the bed and states “The whole fucking world is at stake.” _Dean is at stake_ “This is our only option and I’m not letting you guys stop me.”

 

Then he storms out, preparing the leftover pieces.

 

Jack is first.

 

Finding him is simple, his bedroom door cracked open, revealing a balled up shape curled in the corner. Disheveled blonde hair replaced his face that burrowed itself into folded arms, not even the slightest peep emitting from him. (When the two of them arrived back from the church, they explained the details to the rest of the gang as quickly as possible, yet accurately. In distraught, Cas had decided to pinpoint Dean’s location while they try to figure out something in the meantime. Sam vaguely remembers the sorrowful expression on Jack’s face- Sam’s culpability for this dire mistake he made which spiral him downwards into the bottomless pit that had swallowed him until his world became blank, distracting him from Jack’s emotions.)

 

He’s broken. Shattered into pieces. And Sam blames himself for not being there for this young boy who had only been given the breath of life months ago.  

 

What kind of caretaker is he? What kind of _parent_ is he?

 

Sam approaches carefully, softly, broken out of this trance he’d delved himself in to forget tender memories that just created a cluster of depression. The door creaks as he pushes it slightly, but Jack doesn’t react at all, almost like he’s been frozen in place.

 

Forced to remain in this melancholic state.

 

He squats down to the Nephilim's level, affection seeping into his face, ends of thin lips stretching outward.

 

“Hey, Jack,” he whispers, softly and gently, as if he were talking to a small child- that description isn’t particularly wrong, but the kid has the features of a college student. Jack tilts his head upward, only revealing his eyes, puffy, red blotches under warm brown irises. A golden hue glint off the tears from the corners of his eyes with the pupil fixated on Sam. “You okay?”

 

Jack shakes his head and Sam grasps his shoulder, lightly stroking with this tips of fingers. It takes a few minutes before the Nephilim speaks.

 

“I=It’s all my...fault,” Jack says, hiccuping between words. “If I didn’t trust Lucifer...If I wasn’t reckless enough to let Lucifer steal my powers, this wouldn’t have happened.”

 

The tears begin to flow again, so Sam tugs him into a bone-crushing hug, similar to those he has done with Dean when either of them had died or almost died. (It’s different, although. The hugs that occur between the two brothers were special to them. Sure the tightness or positioning was the same, but it’s the warmth that counts. The way that Dean would have to slightly tip toe upward to reach Sam’s shoulder and Sam would lean down to wrap his arms around Dean’s torso.  The way that they didn’t have to even look at each other for the sentiments to be received. The way Dean had smelled of gunpowder and whiskey and home. It’s different. It’s always different with Dean.)

 

“None of this is your fault, Jack,” Sam replies assertive.“We’re going to get him back.”

 

“Really?” Jack shoots up and Sam has to pull back to dodge the incoming headbutt. There’s this pure amount of relief shining his eyes, mouth gaping a bit.

 

“Of course,” Sam ruffles the boy’s head, an overprotective sensation rushing through him. Maybe this how Dean felt with Lisa and Ben. “I need your help though.”

 

“I’ll do anything,” Jack says enthusiastically- this innocent amount of eagerness written across his face- and Sam can’t help the smile stretching across his face.

 

Maybe it’s then that Sam starts to realize, truly realize, that it’s not just him suffering and it’s not just him fighting to bring Dean back.

 

\--

 

_Dean is free floating in pools of the empty, unable to lift a single finger under the weight that keeps him still. It’s not heavy, but it’s impossible to move as if his body had been frozen in an iceberg, but none of the chillness accompanied him._

 

_No, in here- wherever here is- it’s neither cold nor hot, he’s just wallowing: in nothing._

 

_He should be doing something, but...what was it again?_

 

_Where even is he?_

 

_That thought just spills out through his ear, leaving with him in this plethora of hollowness that entraps him. Not suffocating, however. It’s too...peaceful to be suffocating_

 

_He can’t speak; all the sentences are being swallowed into the darkness (It’s not really darkness, although. It’s something that he, himself, doesn’t compute.)_

 

_“This world is so...intriguing, so different yet so similar.” A voice says, echoing within this space that seems to expand to infinity. He knows that voice, but he doesn’t remember from where or whom. “Suffering and pain and hardship, it still exists in this world. And I’ll save each soul. I’ll save them all.”_

 

_Huh, what does that me-..? It slips past him. Just like everything already has._

 

_Dean’s stuck in this everlasting standstill, not waiting, just breathing (Not really breathing, he doesn’t need to breathe in here), existing._

 

_It doesn’t go dark._

 

_\--_

 

All the pieces fall quickly in place after that.

 

Sam had called Rowena several weeks before to collect all the supplies that they would need and Cas was able to figure out where Michael had been located. (He’s in Alabama for heaven knows why dressed Dean up in ties and trench coats that were displayed in old movies which always seemed cheesy to his brother.)

 

He briskly explains the plan to Cas who, as expected, protest profusely, but Sam’s headstrong and the angel soon gives in. Rowena, also as expected, is supportive to a certain extent, believing that it was “completely bonkers” yet still had faith- it’s what Sam needed the most right now- in their ability to overcome all odds.

 

So now, he’s standing in an all too recognizable cage with sigils painted across the bottom and Rowena’s feets away, a silver bowl, magical ingredients, and the Book of the Damned spread across the table in front of her. Cas and Jack stand beside her, prepared for any surprises or errors.

 

The palms of his hands are sticky in sweat while he gulps salvia down his parched throat. He’s not afraid. He’s not scared, but his heart says otherwise, pounding against his chest in erratic beats.

Latin reaches his ears, alerting Sam of the initiation, and he shuts his eyes, trying to calm himself.

 

_This is happening._

 

Crackles of lightning burst around him as if a storm is approaching. Well, it’s kind of like a storm, only thousands of times worse. But he’s faced Lucifer, the devil himself, which is probably a few more times worse than what he’s about to encounter now. That calms his jittery nerves a bit more, enough that his eyes are able to open.

 

He’s met with a familiar face, containing ocean blue eyes and disheveled dirty blonde and youthful, pale skin that’s stiff and mature beyond years. It’s a reminder that this being isn’t Adam-his half brother-, just a exterior to the one hiding within in the flesh.

 

_Michael._

 

“Hello, Sam” The voice is gruff but high due to the age of the host. Nothing has changed, but there’s definite anger bleeding into Michael’s expression, probably from the years he had to spend trapped in the cage with nobody, but Adam as company. He’s still guilty about leaving his half-brother in here at Michael’s mercy- Sam knows how the consistent torture breaks every part of your mind while your resolve crumbles into ashes and rebuilt once again just like your body before being shattered once again; the only difference between the two is the time they’ve endured through it. Sam wonders how fragmented Adam is now.

 

“Why have you called me here?” Michael says, curiosity peeking into his voice as his eyes narrow. Sam’s hands are fisted into balls, the knuckles whitening under the pressure. It’s now or never.

 

“I need your help.”

 

\---

 

“And the Alternate Michael in Dean’s body plans to purify this world as he done to his own,” Sam explains to Michael who’s leaning against the bars of the cell, crossing his arms and furrowing his eyebrows. “You’re the only one that’s able to stop him.”

 

There’s a couple moments of silence, atmosphere heavier than he’s ever felt and Sam’s nervous all over again. Michael pushes off the barrier, advancing towards him; Sam unconsciously inches back in response.

 

"My alternate self in his perfect vessel has power incomparable to mine in this mere substitute with barely enough energy to hold me." He raises his hand, gaze transferring to his wrist as Sam’s eyes follow, and the sleeves drop slightly, revealing the burns and decay underneath. He notices how the soft glow of the torches that stood on the metallic poles outside illuminate over fragile flesh and inhuman eyes.

 

"Well,” Sam says, attracting Michael’s attention. “what if you had Lucifer's?"

 

“It wouldn’t be enough to take him head-on.” Michael shakes his head, stepping backward. Sam smirks.

 

“Don’t worry, we have a plan”

 

Curiosity gleams in Michael’s (Adam’s, Sam shouldn’t forget that) eyes. (It’s the same kind that was once shown in Dean’s eyes when the Alternate Michael had taken over. Sam’s sick to his stomach.)

 

“Then I agree,” he responds nonchalantly, arm slumping back down.“This fiend has killed my brother. I think that revenge is necessary.”

 

“I only have one more term,” Sam says, sternly, and Michael raises an eyebrow. “I’m in charge.”

 

“Fine.” Michael extends his hand out as an offering. Sam doesn’t take it, instead, he responds with the three simple letters that caused his brother to be taken away, that caused Adam to be taken away. The word that he promised not to say after he had done the same with Lucifer.

 

“Yes”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this is so late, I got sick yesterday and my brain couldn't write with the massive headache I had. I'm alright about this piece (since I wrote this during my headache and after with the side effects still in my veins and that I was so indecisive about the ending), but I think that it's the best that I could pull out from my brain. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy! <3
> 
>  
> 
> WARNING:
> 
> Major Character Death

Consistent mummers reverberate around him- ones that Sam can’t shut out as they were telepathically connected to him through some kind of mystical network for angels.

 

They’re all about him. Well, not him, it’s about the being that’s resting in the back of his head, lying there like a predator that’s ready to strike at any point in time, providing an uneasy vulnerability to Sam.

 

Physically he’s the strongest he’s ever been. (Maybe, not the strongest; the strongest version of himself- even though he hates to admit it- was the one feeding on the delicious, crimson liquid that pumps through the veins of demons. Control is something that he lacks in that form, so he automatically ruled it out as an option.) However, mentally he’s weaker than the version that was about to seal the gates of Hell forever. (Sam was on the verge of death, sick and feeble and barely able to stand on his own two legs, as he pursued the final trial, pushing himself with the belief that he could save the entire world. Then his brother is screaming, arms curling around his delicate, thin torso, the words “Don’t do it” rolling off his tongue like a desperate plea. And Sam stops in tracks because sorrow is the last thing he wants to befall Dean.)

 

He just needs to last this final stretch, resolve ignited in the pits of his stomach. The plan burned in his mind.

 

_Save Dean. If they can’t, launch them both into the cage so that nobody is harmed._

 

(Sam had assured his mother and Bobby that it won't come to this option, tossing them into the cage. Assured them that he'll bring Dean back safe and secure.)

 

A stench of holy oil fills his nostrils as Bobby finishes deploying the barriers around the abandoned warehouse that he stands in. The creaking of worn, rusty pipes above cancels out the Enochian that rings in his ears- he's easily able to understand it as if he’d known the language all of his life. Footsteps against the concrete floor echo and a voice call out to him.

 

It's Charlie. Alternate Charlie, but all the feature are the same and it sends Sam images of her body covered in blood, lying still in the bathtub. Involving her in his grand scheme he had to save Dean from the mark that was slowly transforming him into an immortal being filled with undying rage is his biggest regret. But she’s here now, not her actually, yet he still has this overprotectiveness as he didn’t want to lose her once more.

 

“I got what you needed,” She says, grabbing Sam’s hand and the warm metal collides with his palm. Her hand retracts, revealing the four rings hidden beneath; they glint from the sun rays that beam through the cracked windows that hang on the dirty, rusty walls above. The Rings of the Horsemen. He simply connects them together in the order as they did many years ago when he had last activated them to seal Lucifer up for good.

 

“Thanks.” He shoves them in his pockets. A hand clenches around his arm, concern evident in Charlie’s eyes, lips quirking upward in a perturbed smile. “Stay safe”

 

Then she’s walking away, leaving Sam alone to his own thoughts and the archangel he allowed into his mind.

 

Oddly, Michael is quiet, just sitting there like he is plotting Alternate Michael’s- or Sam’s- demise.

 

The eruption of flames tingle in his ears while the orange-red invades his vision as it surrounds all exits; then he blinks and a figure appears in front of him, stumbling ever so slightly, cladded in layers of cotton and fleece. Those layers are a reminder that it’s not him. It’s not Dean that stands before him. But then those familiar green eyes unveil themselves from under the flat cap that hangs atop, the slightly crooked nose and long lashes and thin, pinkish lips all visible now.

 

The figure before him stands straight, almost robotically, and Sam observes those differences with hurt. The wonder, the strange innocence, twinkling in those eyes with a smirk that’s calm and sophisticated as if he were soulless right now.

 

He shouldn’t get distracted. He can't get distracted for Dean's sake.

 

Sam whips out the matches from his pockets, lighting it precariously, and dropping it onto the ground to enlighten the oil that wets the floor. A smaller circle entraps Dean (Alternate Michael; this thing isn’t Dean and will never be Dean.) in a ring of fire that prevents any escape. Well, when it’s still lit.

 

“Michael,” Alternate Michael says with obvious curiosity, voice much gruffer than Dean’s, and Sam’s eyes unconsciously bloom in pure silver as a response.

 

“Dean, can you hear me?” Sam asks, ignoring the being that controls the main steering wheel. “I know you’re in there. Michael is controlling you. You have to expel him.”

 

“He can’t hear you,” He states; Sam glares at him while the alternate Michael’s smirk deepens. The archangel blade slides down from the confines of his trenchcoat sleeves, flinging it upward and cutting the pipes above in half, invoking the water inside to descend onto the cement floor. The flames that kept him separated, protected, from the imprisoned monster have been extinguished with a simple flick of the wrist.

 

The blade falls perfectly back into his hand as if they were created for each other. Shock prevents Sam from moving, but there’s a nudge in the back of his mind that jumpstarts him. He digs through his pockets, tossing the rings out in the front, the memorized words appearing fresh in his brain, but he’s unable to speak. An invisible hand slapped over his mouth, tugging him back into the abyss.

 

“Sorry, Sam. I don’t plan to go back to the cage.”

 

Sam watches as his arm reveals his own angel blade, gold and short, glimmering in the sunlight. They’re stagnant for a bit, intensely surveying each other, before Michael makes the first move, twirling the blade back with ease and preparing to strike with his fist. Sam knows exactly what Michael is going to do before he even moves.

 

Alternate Michael is launched backward, across the room, but is back in an instant, hitting back with an immense amount of force. They’re not strong enough- Sam can easily see that- and Michael’s hold will continue to weaken with each blow, Sam realizes.

 

Another punch comes and Michael blocks, crossing his arms over his face, but it doesn’t prevent him from crashing into the cement wall. With Michael dazed, Sam is able to remove him from control. The tip of the archangel blade is pointed directly onto his neck, cutting into the flesh, deep enough for there to be blood, but still not enough for grace to pour.

 

“Give up,” The hideous smirk engraving itself into Sam’s memory, raging bellowing inside of him.

 

Breathing ragged, Sam uses his last remaining strength to kick the Alternate Michael off him. The recoil causing him to lose power over his own body, Michael prevailing through the moment of distraught. Michael rushes towards him, but Alternate Michael knock him down to the ground. Sam fights for control again, lashing out in punches that Michael deflects. 

 

Then Alternate Michael pins him down onto the concrete floor as the Michael in his mind does the same to him. His grip (Michael’s grip) on the handle becomes firmer that lies between the two archangels and Sam struggles to thrust him off.

 

It’s Michael that swings, but it’s Sam that feels the impact.

 

Alternate Michael’s (Dean’s) eyes and mouth glow in pale white, howling in agony before collapsing to the ground. Empty sockets with burnt crisp edges where murky, forest green eyes used to be.

 

The world slows down, heartbeat pounding in his ears. Sam doesn’t breathe for the next few minutes, eyes traveling to trembling hands with the blade stained in Dean’s blood. It makes him sick.

 

He can feel something grabbing his arm.

 

_Michael._

 

Sam can't allow Michael to take over because if he did, then the world itself would end, repeating what had happened in the alternate world which is filled with bloodshed. 

 

Flipping the handle to the tips of his fingers, Sam braces himself for the impact as shouts erupt in his brain and jabs the blade into his stomach

 

White. It’s all white after that.


End file.
